Meg Moves Out
by Zighana
Summary: Meg has had enough with her family and moves out to New York to start over. As she lives the high life from her commercial success, she learns some shocking news: Lois Griffin is dead and Meg Griffin is the sole beneficiary of her life insurance worth the entire Pewtershmidt empire!
1. Prequel

Meg Moves Out

Do you hate your family?

I mean really, _really,_ hate your family?

Like, if a gunman were to put a gun to their head, and ask you who you wanted to live, and you'd tell him, without batting an eye, to just _kill_ _them all_?

I'm not the only one.

I _hope_ I'm not the only one.

Those are the questions I ask myself as I sit in my room and type on my computer. I know you'll tell me, '_the_ _hatred_ _is_ _temporary, you love_ _them deep_ _down_ _in your heart',_ and I'll tell you to go fuck yourself, because you're a self-pretentious prick. You don't know all the crap I put up with, all the pain, the cuts, the _suicide attempts_ I endure because of my whacked out family. They belittle me, they dehumanize me, and they act like I'm not part of the family; the _family dog_ gets treated better than me! I thought it was me at first, but as I got older, I know it's them. _They're_ the assholes, not me. Once I figured out that conclusion, I've been mapping out plans to move out and start life anew, _without_ my family. I'm 18 now, graduated from high school with Top Honors, and am fully capable of taking care of myself. While my self-involved family goes on some illogical shenanigan I'm busy working, saving up every last cent for a nice apartment in New York.

New York, if you can make it there you can make it anywhere; I plan to go there soon and make it as a writer. I've got everything set up, roommate included. In the next month, I'm packing my bags and leaving. It's so close I could taste it.

"Meg, come down here I want to show you something."

Lard-ass wants me. I sign off on my computer and leave to see what he wants. Probably use me as a butt monkey in a desperate attempt for a cheap laugh.

As usual, he proved me right. I wipe the fart smell off my face and stare at my calendar, the red X's bringing me comfort. One month: four weeks and three days and I'm out of here. This is all I need to stay sane, to keep my composure and not snap. All I need is to play the waiting game. I rub my computer, the hum making me smile. This computer has helped me through the hard times, helped me earn some money. It has all of my stories, all of my thoughts and insecurities, all of the memories that were actually happy. This thing is the closest I have to a best friend.

"Goodnight, Betty." I tell her before going to bed, ready to start anew.

"Welcome to Chunky Chuckies, may I take your order?" I ask a random customer. The restaurant is packed with people and I'm stuck working the graveyard shift because Connie bailed at the last minute. I don't mind; any excuse to stay out of the house is fine with me. The customer tells me his order and I write it down and tack it onto the list of orders as the man gives me his money. I give him change and welcome the next customer. The hours feel long and boring until it is closing time. The last one leaves and it's time to close shop.

I mop the floor and wipe the grease off the work station when Mr. McGee, my boss, stops me.

"How long have you been working?"

"I don't know," I admitted.

"I know it's longer than the hours I gave you! Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"No, Mr. McGee. I had to cover for Connie. Again."

"Well her pay will be cut in half and you will get a bonus. You're a lot of help around this restaurant, Meg. I want to promote you to Assistant Manager."

"Thank you, Mr. McGee, but I don't think it's necessary," I tell him. He quirks an eyebrow.

"Why not?"

"I'm not going to be here long. Next month I'm packing my bags and going to New York."

"I see," He sits down in the booth and beckons me to sit with him.

"What's out there for you in the Big Apple?"

"Distance and a dream."

"Rhode Island that bad for you, huh?"

"It's just my family. I need to get as far away from them as I can,"

"Well, distance makes the heart grow fonder. You have fun in New York and make it there. I want to see you in the funnies one day. Now get out of here and go home. You've earned it."

"Will do, Mr. McGee. Will do." I grab my coat and leave, heart brimming with pride. I imagine my name in lights, _'Meg Griffin, famous author, publishes another bestseller!'_ What story should I write? A heart-stopping thriller, a dramatic love story, a vampire fic that would save the vampire folklore from the disaster known as Twilight? The possibilities are endless.

I come to Spooner Street and sigh. I honestly do not want to come home; I'd much rather go to Quagmire's than home. I look at the front window of my house and witness my family playing charades, laughing and having fun. I'm actually jealous. I enter the house and the fun stops.

"Meg, why do you smell like grease? You decided to wear your natural smell?"

"No, Dad. I was _working._ You know, that thing you do that pays bills?" I reply. I have no energy to listen to them rag on me. I have to edit my latest story and submit it in hopes of a scholarship. I rush up the steps and into my room. I close the door, lock it, and I notice something missing. My computer.

My computer, that held my future in its technological hands, is missing.

Who took it?

I bolt down the steps and in a heartbeat, I ask, "Where is my computer?"

"We trashed it after reading your stories." Chris says. I grab him by the shirt and slam him into the wall.

"You. Did. What?"

"Why do you care? You can always get a new one," Dad interjected. My blood is starting to boil. My computer was my lifeline; it held my stories, my future and it is my confidante. And poof, just like that, my stories, my future, and my friend, is gone.

"Why did you do that, Dad?"

"We thought it would be funny. You should've seen it when we dragged it by the truck. It was like skiing but with-"

"I. Hate. You." I managed to say, my hands are bleeding with how much pressure my nails are digging in my palms.

"What was that, sweetheart?" Mom asks.

"_I hate you!_" I screamed.

"Is that _loud_ _enough_ for you? I hate this family! You guys love taking a steaming pile of _crap_ on my dreams, my hopes, and my sanity! What you guys have done is rob me of a future! That computer held my career, my dreams, and you _trashed_ it? For a laugh? I've had it up to here with this bullshit! I'm moving out! Good luck finding someone that can put up with you because I'm done being the one." I stomp upstairs and snatch my clothes and belongings. Mom bursts open the door and glares at me.

"Listen to me, young lady. You have no right having an outburst like that. You should be…"

"Should be what, Mom? Taking it with a smile? I've been this family's punching bag for all these years and when I bite back you want to act like the victim? And you, you're supposed to be my _mother_ and you treat me the _worst_! You made me go through an eating disorder, you made me cut myself because you'd always belittle me and make fun of me for not looking like the girls who teased me! I hate _you_ most of all. I hope you _drop_ _dead_," I spat.

For once, Mom looked hurt. Really hurt.

"I didn't know you felt that way, Meg. If that's how you feel, then you can get out of here, and never come back." She says quietly.

"Gladly," I told her, before grabbing my bags and heading out the door.

I gave one last look at my family: Dad looks confused, Chris looks terrified, Stewie looks amused, Brian looks worried, and Mom, she won't even look at me. I swallowed the tears that are building in my throat and I turn my back on them.

I don't know where I'm going and I honestly don't care.

Meg Griffin no longer has a family. Her family died when the mother turned her back on her.


	2. Chapter 1: Coward

Chapter Two: Coward

(Brian's P.O.V.)

When I saw Meg leave, I knew this was it. Meg has had enough; she's leaving and never coming back.

Her eyes said it all.

I'm a coward; I stood there and watched this entire thing happen and did nothing to stop it. I'm no different than a passerby who witnesses a mugging and doesn't attempt to help, or a follower who didn't help the victim when they needed it the most. I'm scum.

I should chase after her; these chilly winds, high crime rate, and pitch darkness is enough to make me concerned. I should tell her that she had every right to be angry at the, angry at me, and we deserve every bit of spite she has to offer. I should listen to her pain as she reminds me of all the times she's been mistreated for nothing, and offer her advice and support, make her feel important. I should tell she's the wonderful woman she is and to come home and think.

But my feet won't move.

My lips won't speak.

My body won't cooperate with my brain.

So I look at her go, her pink mass becoming nothing more than a speck and eventually darkness. She's gone, forever.

The next three weeks without Meg has been uncomfortable: Lois is snappier, Peter's jokes are no longer funny and the elephant in the room is so big it's suffocating. The focus on everyone's mind is Meg. Lois made it a rule to not talk about her but she can't stop us from thinking it.

I should say something, redeem my past role as the voice of reason, the only one with a valid conscience.

But like the douche bag I am, I quietly sip my coffee and do nothing.

I don't know what has come over me; over the past decade I've become more of a douche. I used to pride myself on doing what's right; my right-wing liberalism and Hybrid car tell others that. Where is my spine? My in-your-face righteousness that made people grow a brain cell or two has dissipated to complete…douchery.

That night, when everyone is asleep, I grab the key under the owl statue and make my way to the basement. There was the trunk I left by the washing machine, unscathed.

Looking over my shoulder, I turned on the light and locked the door. I unlocked the trunk and looked at my treasure: all of Meg's stories.

After we stole her computer, we read her stories while Meg was off working. Well, I read them; Peter and Chris didn't have the mental capacity or the patience to absorb and enjoy a good story. I told them that I wanted printed copies of every last work before Peter trashed it for a Jackass submission. It took me over one hundred dollars worth of ink but I got my money's worth. After hours of sorting, getting paper-cuts, and reading, I managed to organize every last paper into professionally finished copies. I looked at the hidden picture of Meg in one of her books and I sighed.

I'm done being a coward.

It's time I start doing what's right once again.


	3. Chapter 2: War

WAR

Tick tack tick tack tick tack tick tack…

I furiously type away my anger and frustration into my latest victim: Connie's laptop. Ever since my recent homelessness, the D'Amico's, out of the kindness of their heart or their mutual dislike of my mother, decided to take me in and let me stay as long as I worked, paid rent, and attend church with them every Sunday. I don't mind; anything beats being out in the cold weeks away from my freedom.

My freedom, what is my freedom, anyway? No matter how hard I try to escape, no matter how hard I try to ignore it, I can't escape my family. They chained me to my horrid fate; they are the tarnish of my newly polished image. They're the weeds that cling when I'm trying to make a name for myself, pulling me back to obscurity.

I'm cursed.

Connie stands on the doorway, watching me assault her computer. She only watches, sometimes taking care to take a sip on her coffee and offer a simple word here and there to make my…project, give impact.

Ever since my departure, I've decided to fight fire with fire; they want to drag me through hell, I'm going to give them a taste of their own medicine. I'm writing a tell-all book about my life living with…The Griffins, and am planning to publish it in five weeks. I know, a tell-all book? How childish and cheap! But, I'm too fueled by rage and hurt to care.

My book features the secrets of the family, the scandals that plagued the Pewterschmidt empire, the antics of Peter, my bullied life, and the shenanigans that take place in the household. I have enough information that will ruin everyone this book touches, information that will put everyone in their place. They'll think twice before messing with me again...

"Meg, you gotten a package from someone named Brian."

Brian? What could he possibly want?

Pausing from my excursions, I got up and make my way downstairs.

It was a package, a box with a taped address and a pocketed card. It reads, "I'm Sorry."

Opening the package, I find all of my stories, my poems, works, diary entries. My computer in paper form.

I could almost cry at such good luck; how could Brian have done...?

Brian.

He not once tried to help me when I was bullied. He had stopped being my friend and more of an asshole for the approval of the family. Brian, you cowardly son of a bitch!

Did he seriously think this little package will stop me from my hatred? That this last minute attempt at redemption will cease my wrath?

Years of anger, hurt, and betrayal filled me with a brighter conviction.

This. Definitely means. War.


	4. Chapter 3: Dear Meg

Dear Meg

When, or if, you get this letter, I hope that you know…

That I'm sorry.

I know it's a long overdue apology, that you're beyond the point of forgiveness, but I need to get this off my chest before it swallows me whole.

When you left our home, I've taken some time to reflect. I sat in my room, drank some wine, and found some old videotapes I took of you.

Do you remember, Meg?

When you were four, and you fell and scraped your knee? I swooped you up in my arms and kissed your knee. I looked into your eyes and sang you the Sunshine song.

Do you remember how it went, Meg?

_You are my Sunshine, my Lovely Sunshine,_

_You make me happy, when skies are gray._

_I'll always love you and protect you._

_No one will take my Sunshine away._

Your smile was all the reward I needed.

It was then I promised to you, to Chris, to Stewie, that I would be the best mother I could be. I won't be like my cold mother or my money-hungry father. I will do things right by putting my past behind me and starting over.

But I didn't, did I?

I wasn't the best mother to you, now was I?

I was mean to you, I belittled you, I pointed out your shortcomings when mine are glaring back at me in the face. I projected my frustrations, my insecurities, my failures, onto you. I looked at you and saw a failure. Me.

I'm a failure.

I'm in a dead-end marriage with an idiot, living out my glory days reminiscing on when I could've been somebody. I had the looks, the brains, the talent, and I wasted it all on your father.

But you, you have potential. You graduated high school. You have ambitions of being a writer. Not once have you relied on your looks or how far you could spread your legs to get anywhere. Your friends are loyal and honest people that love you for your personality, and are still present.

You're…

Everything I wished I was when I was your age.

Perhaps that's why I'm so hostile; I never could relive my high school years and I'm bitter.

If I could rewind time, I would've pursued a college education before I met your father. I would've pursued a career-worthy major and got a job. I would've had children at 32, and it'd be with someone who's going somewhere with his life. And still be unsatisfied. I never could be happy with anything, Meg. I'm an impossible woman to be with.

I read your stories, watched you grow from a misunderstood teenager to an angry woman whose heart is weak with hatred for her own blood. A woman who hates the very blood that birthed her. A woman who used her hatred to pack her bags and leave to make something out of her life, wherever she is.

I can honestly say, I'm proud of you.

You refuse to let others drag you down. You stood up for yourself and left before it could get worse. Before I've successfully crippled your wings and you're stuck in the shithole you crawled out of.

You made it.

I'm sorry that it took all this to make you leave.

I'm sorry that I haven't offered you the guidance you deserved, the attention you needed and the support you craved. I'm sorry I didn't stick up for you when Peter went too far with his shenanigans that hurt you. I'm sorry I didn't help you when the world turned against you because of your perceived ugliness.

The sad part is, you're not ugly. We are. We're the most disgusting creatures on the planet, so comfortable in our own ugliness that we've become blind to the only beauty that mattered. You're beautiful, Meg. I'm not saying this because I'm your mother, or because I pity you, but because you _are_ beautiful.

You're loyal, giving, caring, intelligent, honest, sweet, and determined.

You learned early that looks don't matter when you got the grit to survive.

You survived your terrible upbringing. You clawed your way to independence and a dream. You have, or had, a job just to help pay the bills and pocket some for your ambitions.

And that in and of itself, is beautiful.

Not many of us can admit we've done that.

This isn't an apology letter, or a ply for your pity to give me some empty-handed forgiveness. This is a goodbye letter.

I'm dying, Meg.

I can't tell you what it is, but the doctor told me I have one year, if I'm lucky. So I'm now sorting through ny assets and my will. Since your grandfather died, I've been the sole proprietor of Pewterschmidt Empires. Do you know what that means? I have enough cash to leave Quahog and start over anywhere. I have enough money to divorce your father and take you, Stewie, and Chris to anywhere in the world and still live luxuriously.

But, I'm giving it to you.

When I pass, you get the Pewterschmidt Empire and half of my estate and assets. You can then decide who deserves the rest. Choose wisely.

I'm giving you all of this power not as a last attempt for mercy, but because I realized you've earned it. You know not to waste money, you know who deserves the cash and who doesn't, and I'm assured that you'll never let money change you.

You can have all this, on two conditions.

One, you must never give up on your dream. I don't care how long it takes, you need to keep pushing.

Two, you never change. Money changes people, and I don't want you to learn the hard way what it can do. I've hit rock bottom one too many times to learn that lesson.

I love you, Meg.

I always will love you, even though you hate me and will probably destroy this letter out of spite.

Just promise me you'll be successful with or without the money and not let our mediocre family drag you down. Please, keep pushing. Keep struggling. Keep succeeding.

You are my Sunshine after all.

~Lois


	5. Chapter 4: I'm No Perez Hilton

**I'm No Perez Hilton**

I look at the large stack of paper standing tall like justice. It's done. My manifesto of destruction is complete. I can send it to anyone and make a fortune. My blood, sweat, and tears is going to make history.

I read each and every page of this manuscript, memorizing each word and each line.

And feel a burning need to destroy it all.

I know, I know. It's ridiculous to put all this effort into it and then decide to destroy it and turn your back on it. It's a waste of time and money to just piss it away.

But I just don't care.

No, I didn't do it out of the kindness of my heart, or because deep down I love my family and wouldn't dream of slandering them, even though they deserve it.

I have pride.

I don't want to get famous by slinging mud at people. To tear others down and make them feel ashamed for their shortcomings. To slander.

That profession is reserved for politicians and gossipers like Wendy Williams or Perez Hilton.

And I'm no Perez Hilton.

I want to get famous writing stories that help people, not hurt them. The best revenge is success, after all. My book may not make as much as a tell-all, or you won't see me on a big-name channel talking about the people whose lives I destroyed, but I will stick to my truest self.

I'll always do what's right.

I grabbed that pile of filth and took it to the trashcan outside. After I dumped it, I grabbed that lighter fluid and doused it. I lit a match, and _boom_—instant bonfire.

It's kind of symbolic, how I'm burning the last of my ties to my asshole family. When the last ember blew out, I feel calm. I feel like a new woman.

I walked back into Connie's house and found one of my stories.

I'm going to succeed the honest way, even if it's the last thing I do.


End file.
